Chapter 12
Violet
Grocery shopping with Dog-Jason is becoming weirdly easy. I still can’t get over the fact that I now have two Jasons in my life. Okay, Human-Jason is hardly in my life—he’s just helping me learn to cook and organizing the ADA stuff, whatever that may entail—but still.
And it’s not like I have a crush on him. I don’t. Truly. But something about him makes my stomach do this ridiculous fluttery thing, like my insides have been hit by Cupid’s taser. I refuse to call it a crush, but twitterpation? Maybe. Mildly. Inconveniently.
I also can’t get over how often people comment on how big Jason is.
Yes, he’s a big doggo, but blindness doesn’t mean deafness.
I hear you whisper-shouting, Susan. Even over the ghastly Mariah Carey song blasting through the speakers loud enough to rupture organs.
Whoever chose this playlist must be a sadistic son of a bitch intent on torturing unsuspecting shoppers.
I miss being able to pop in earbuds and listen to podcasts while shopping, but without my sight, I need my ears free to detect anything even remotely unsafe—happy helper or not.
“All right, Jason, let’s see what we need.”
I open my notes app, where I saved the grocery list for this week’s meal.
Hattie and Meemaw have been harassing me to cook for them, but after the first disaster, I want to be more confident before I do.
When I finally make something for them, I want it to wow their pants off…
no, socks. Wow their socks off. No one needs to see Meemaw without her pants again.
That New Year’s party was wild and mentally damaging.
As it is, I’m already nervous about cooking for Human-Jason again. But the beef bourguignon was mouthwatering, and I’m excited about having things become more accessible for me.
Hitting play, I lift my phone to my ear to hear the ingredients list.
“Jason, I hope you’re paying attention, because this is quite the list.”
The robotic voice calls out “chicken,” and I make my way to the back of the store where the refrigerators are. I’m about to switch to Be My Eyes when Jason nudges me with his nose.
“Is this the chicken, boy?”
A small beat of silence, then a quiet bark. One bark—reluctant, like he hates barking, but he’ll do it for me.
“Okie dokie. Chicken breasts. Check. Next.”
“Cashews,” the robotic voice says. Off we go to find those.
Despite the music, I’m actually excited about shopping for this meal.
And with Jason beside me, it feels like I have company.
When Hattie and I shopped together last week, it took two hours to get litchis and mineral water.
I’m convinced she stopped at every single item to ooh and aah like it was her first time ever being inside a store.
Even Jason started to whine—and not the cute whine either.
Next up: onions and broccoli florets, both of which I already have at home.
Then: one green pepper, one red pepper, one thumb of ginger.
Those I don’t have, so we head down the produce aisle. The clacking of my cane and Jason’s cheerful footsteps make a rhythm that almost drowns out the Christmas song assaulting us in October. Halloween first, please.
Eventually, we have everything we need for cashew chicken, and my stomach grumbles in anticipation. I snag an apple to hold off my hunger—I don’t want to spoil my appetite.
I consider grabbing a bottle of wine, but think better of it. Probably not the best idea to drink while cooking. Besides, Jason might judge me for drinking blind.
“Wine or no wine, Jason? It’s not like I’m going to get blind drunk.”
I snort at my own joke, but Dog-Jason gently steers me away from the liquor aisle. Fair point. If my jokes are this lame when I’m sober, staying that way is probably best for all involved.
I’m convinced we’ve got everything when Jason nudges my hand upward.
“What have I missed, boy?”
He directs me toward a shelf and plops something into my hand. Frowning, I open Be My Eyes. The volunteer tells me it’s lime juice. Before I can thank her, Jason nudges another bottle near my hand. Peanut oil.
“Good choice, boy. The recipe does say canola or peanut oil, but go big or go home, right? What would I do without you?”
I pop it into the cart and turn, only to hear a voice behind me.
“That’s precisely why they shouldn’t allow pets in stores. How unsanitary. That dog just grabbed a bottle off the shelf with his mouth. Now I have to worry about fleas and worms.”
Well, that’s it. You can say what you like about me, but back off, Barbie—you don’t get to talk shit about my dog.
I whip around, ready to let her have it, but stop myself. Someone who begrudges an otherwise-abled person their support isn’t going to get it.
I need to save my energy for better things.
So, I turn back, lift my chin, and say, “C’mon, Jason. It’s obnoxiously loud in here. Time to get home.”
An indignant “Humph” hits my ears, but I walk away smiling. I didn’t lose my shit. I must be growing.
By the time Jason and I make it home, my apple core is all that’s left of my willpower. My stomach is doing the grumbly death-rumble thing that warns future-me she should’ve eaten something substantial before grocery shopping. Lesson learned.
Maybe.
Jason guides me through the doorway like he owns the place, tail thumping once before he trots toward the kitchen. He scratches at the back door. I shake my head.
“You know you were just outside a second ago, right?”
He whines, and I laugh. “Okay, okay. Nature calls when it calls.”
I open the kitchen door and let him out, then start unloading groceries onto the counter. Produce here, cans there, cashews where I won’t mistake them for dog treats. That little buzz of excitement hits again. Cashew chicken. Me. Making dinner like a functioning adult.
I’m lining up the peppers like little edible soldiers when my doorbell rings.
Jason barks from where I assume he’s doing his business—or chasing rabbits.
One bark, sharp and annoyed, and then silence as he returns to whatever he’s up to.
It still amazes me how having him nearby pushes all my weird intrusive thoughts out of the way.
I head to the door with confidence. Maybe because I know Human-Jason is scheduled to do my cooking class.
Or maybe because Jason’s paws are bigger than most people’s heads. Either way, I’m grateful for the peace.
I pull open the door with a welcoming smile.
“Hi, Violet. You look lovely.”
Jason’s raspy voice hits low in my belly. When he speaks, it’s like smooth honey over bourbon, hot and sweet. That’s what I get for not speaking to men in so long. Well, except Sam.
“Thank you. Come on in.”
“Ah… before I do that, there’s someone I’d like to introduce you to.”
I feel another presence step forward, like he entered the stage on cue. Someone tall. Very tall.
Stretched-on-a-medieval-rack tall.
And when he speaks, it’s in the thickest Cockney accent I’ve ever heard outside BBC dramas.
“Afternoon, love. I’m Reggie. Here to help you set up your ADA modifications. You got a lovely place ’ere.”
Just like when Beau introduced himself the other day, this man’s voice also comes from at least two feet above me.
My brain does a record scratch.
Is everyone in this program giant-sized? Is being tall a prerequisite? Did I accidentally sign up for ADA: The NBA Edition?
Human-Jason coughs like he’s trying not to laugh—rude—and says, “I thought it might be good to introduce you two early. Reggie’s handling the tactile markers and kitchen layout adjustments.”
“Don’t you worry, sweetheart. We’ll get you sorted proper. I used to install accessibility layouts for the royals.”
The royals? Somehow, I doubt it, but I don’t think Human-Jason would allow him into the house if he was a bad person. An overactive imagination? Sure.
Dog-Jason appears out of nowhere and bumps my leg. His growl is different from anything I’ve heard before—like he’s saying: “What is happening? Why is this man so loud? Why is he so tall? Should I bite him?”
I mutter back, “We don’t bite people, Jason. It’s rude.”
Human-Jason snorts. “He’s fine. Mostly.”
I step back to let them in. “Okay, seriously, though… is everyone in this program tall? Should I be worried?”
Reggie laughs like I’ve said the funniest thing he’s ever heard.
“Oh, aye. We breed ’em big in my line o’ work.”
Fantastic. By the end of the night, I’ll have neck strain from “looking” up.
Something cool hits my hands, and I startle back.
“Shit, sorry. It’s wine. I thought we could have some with dinner.”
Warmth flows through me, like I’ve already taken a large gulp of it. How sweet. “Thank you, that was very thoughtful of you.”
“Ready to cook?”
I nod, suddenly glad I put on lip balm because he always sounds like he’s smiling when he talks to me, and somehow that makes me want to look nicer. More put-together.
“As ready as I’ll ever be. Did you bring that flame retardant suit I warned you to bring?”
He chuckles, and it sinks into places that haven’t felt a spark in a while. I wonder what he looks like. If the face and biceps and wrists match the voice. Down, Violet. You’re learning how to create heat in the kitchen, not in your panties.
Behind him, claws click on tile.
Dog-Jason. Except he feels different. Even smells a little different. What the heck was he doing out back? His gait is even heavier. More irritated.
“Jason?” I ask, kneeling. “What is it boy? These are friends. They’re here to help me like you are.”
He gives a whine. Close enough.
“Rough day?” I murmur, scratching his ear.
Another whine.
“Maybe you need to lay off chasing things in the tall grass for a bit, huh? Did something spook you?” Like anything can spook a dog that feels like he was fed steroids instead of milk as a pup.
Human-Jason makes a strangled sound behind me and I straighten up.